Color Fade
by MaudlinRogue
Summary: [AU/Coffee shop drabble] He draws her under a star-dotted sky. Despite her beauty, no one can see her. She is a creation of lustful fishermen and lonely sea divers—the Goddess of the Sea.


_Color Fade_

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He sips bitter coffee. She reads Golding while she waits for her caramel macchiato. He takes a pen out of his jacket pocket. She turns a page, eyes glaring at the print, mind lost in another world. He ruffles his jet black hair while his free hand reaches for a paper napkin. _ "Now the sunlight had lifted clear of the open space and withdrawn from the sky," _she reads. He spins his pen between his fingers, wondering. _"Darkness poured out, submerging between the trees till they were dim and strange as the bottom of the sea." _She sighs, her lips curling into a frown. The imagery is beginning to terrify her. He studies her close: Pale skin. Full, beautiful curves. Long sapphire hair. Astute, azure-colored eyes. She reminds him of the sea. He feels lucky; his pen has blue ink.

"Excuse me, miss," a voice drawls beside her, and she almost jumps out of her skin. The waiter places her coffee on the table and leaves. She blinks twice, shutting her hardbound close. He makes messy strokes. The aroma of her coffee soothes her nerves a little, but it is still too hot to drink. She blows, watching the creamy liquid ripple like a lake, waiting, waiting. He spins his pen and finishes his coffee, bitter and dark like Nietzsche's abyss. _Fuck Nietzsche and fuck this coffee, _he thinks. She looks up from her cup, examining the cafe. He hates Nietzsche with a passion. He hates coffee with a passion. He glares at his empty cup. Her eyes browse through the tasteless décor that grace the faded, yellow walls. Boring. He counts how many coffee cups he's had since yesterday. He is afraid of sleep. He spins his pen once more before continuing his napkin masterpiece. Her eyes sift through the sitting, sipping, chatting customers. Boring. Generic. He draws her under a star-dotted sky: stark naked with an erotic expression on her face. Shells adorn her long, wavy hair. Despite her beauty, no one can see her. She is a creation of lustful fishermen and lonely sea divers. _The Goddess of the Sea_, he mentally names, catching his breath. Her eyes land on his figure, and she wonders what he's doing. _His onyx eyes are filled with overt concentration;_ she writes literature in her mind. She doesn't need a pen.

_He is writing a poem about his lady-love, his dearest, his soul mate. His Annabel Lee._

_He is filled with regrets. He is filled with mistakes and misconceptions._

_She is dead, and he is dying. _

_He is bleeding through ink, he is emptying his soul through words._

He licks his upper lip and looks up from his work. She catches him in surprise. He feels the rush of adrenaline through his veins. She feels the rush of blood in her cheeks. He wonders if she has been looking at him for too long. She wonders if he thinks she's a creep. He wonders if he should ask her name. She wonders if she should ask him what he's writing about. She likes words, she'll tell him. She lives and breathes words, she drinks them like milk, she'll explain to him. Literature is her life. He wonders if he should show her his work of art; he wonders if she appreciates art. She's naked in this drawing, he'll tell her. But the human body is anything but shameful. It's aesthetic. The greatest work of art. He's an artist, he damages and resurrects himself through art, he'll explain to her. Art is his life.

_I hope he understands_, she whispers to herself.

_I hope she understands_, he whispers to himself.

She shuffles on her seat. He folds the paper napkin into two. "Hey, Juvia," a hand taps on her shoulder. She gasps, reality clawing on her feet, tender curiosity and lust for words dissipating in the wind. "Y-you're late, Lyon-sama," she whispers, her heated face finally cooling down. "Juvia has been waiting for you here since eleven!" She stands up from her seat, whining. She follows the white-haired man walk out of the coffee shop, clutching her book. She forgets to give a tip.

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He watches her leave. He shrugs tiredly, onyx eyes transfixed on her untouched coffee. _What a waste. _He fishes loose change out of his pocket. _His tip_. "Will that be all, sir?" The waiter asks him moments later, as he cleans the table and throws his paper napkin masterpiece into a garbage bag, looking at the tip with distaste.

"Yeah," he agrees.


End file.
